Everyone in a fallen world experiences disappointment. Often, it’s fleeting, momentary. Like when I realize my last comment in a conversation was so insipid that I wish I was somewhere else. Disappointing—and thankfully—temporary.
But then the fallenness of the world is deep enough that some periods of disappointment last far longer. To linger. To give every appearance of perhaps continuing permanently. Mine began on March 7, 2024, and continues as I write this in January 2025.
Disappointment is, well, disappointing. Dispiriting. Draining. Discouraging.
And so, I’ve been alert to simple pleasures that bring a bit of delight. Ordinary things, moments of gladness and grace during the disappointment.
One delight for me, unsurprisingly, is our books, our library. Frederick Buechner shared my delight. This is “Books,” from his 2004 book, Beyond Words:
Books
Books are to read, but that is by no means the end of it.
The way they are bound, the paper they are printed on, the smell of them (especially if they are either very new or very old), the way the words are fitted to the page, the look of them in the bookcase sometimes lined up straight as West Point cadets, sometimes leaning against each other for support or lying flat so you have to tip your head sideways to see them properly. Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation, the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, the Pléiade edition of Saint Simon, Chesterfield’s letters, the Qur’an. Even though you suspect you will probably never get around to them, it is an honor just to have them on your shelves.
Something of what they contain gets into the air you breathe. They are like money in the bank, which is a comfort even though you never spend it. They are prepared to give you all they’ve got at a moment’s notice, but are in no special hurry about it. In the meanwhile, they are holding their tongues, even the most loquacious of them, even the most passionate.
They are giving you their eloquent and inexhaustible silence. They are giving you time to find your way to them. Maybe they are giving you time, with or without them, just to find your way.
My library has not resolved my disappointment, but it’s been a place of grace. Believe it: sitting with a good book surrounded by shelves of books is its own pleasure. It needs no justification. A quiet pleasure that offsets disappointment, at least a bit, at least for awhile.
Another delight has been the refreshment that comes in being reminded that because Christ is Lord of all, nothing is too small, too ordinary to be outside his concern. My disappointment may seem insignificant in the cosmic scheme of things, but his watchfulness never falters.
Alan Jacobs (December 4, 2024) reminded me of this by commending a reflection by Kevin Williamson on the biblical miracle at Cana:
The miracle at Cana isn’t water becoming wine—any old magician could do that sort of thing. Whatever it was that Jesus was about, it wasn’t stupid party tricks. The miracle is that the Ruler of the Universe cared about such a little thing as the social anxieties of a bunch of nobodies in an obscure little corner of the world of no particular importance, and that He loved them the way a father loves his children—and what kind of father offers just enough at a time like that when he has, at his disposal, the very best? The best robe, the gold ring, the fatted calf, the wine that was better than any wine the local whatever-was-Hebrew-for-sommelier had ever tasted? The supernatural stuff is one thing, but consider the magnificence of that gesture, the sheer audacious style of it. I do not care if you are the most cynical atheist walking the Earth — it is impossible not to admire the panache. He bends reality into a new shape, makes the universe follow new rules, to help out a friend, and He does it cool—nobody even knows what happened except for the waiters.
My disappointment and discouragement has been serious enough, deep enough that I do not—can not—sense His presence. And so, it’s been good, essential even, to be reminded this doesn’t mean he is absent. Or uncaring. Or judging. Or distracted. He remains Lord God. Even during a period of disappointment. And the incarnation means that my disappointment is not simply theoretical to him.
The evening of March 6, 2024, Margie suddenly developed a fever. The next morning Anita and I determined she needed medical care and so we took her to the ER. They hospitalized her for necrotizing (tissue killing) pneumonia, beginning a period of suffering that still has not been resolved. The illness was painful; the treatments were painful. The pain was enough that at times she was unable to give her date of birth or address. And then about a week into her eleven-day hospital stay, her physician told Anita and me that if the treatment failed, they had nothing further to offer except palliative care and hospice. When I heard she was this close to death, something in my soul collapsed. Then, since her release from the hospital, her arthritis has moved into her neck, resulting in devastating neck- and headaches. “Normal” days are 4-5 (on the 0-10 pain scale); hard days, which occur more frequently than she admits, are 7-9. Day after day.
And over time, as days have morphed into weeks and months, my soul feels seared by her suffering. I was unprepared to watch my wife endure so much pain, so constantly.
This has changed our life, obviously. Drastically. What we can or can not do, what we schedule or have to say No to, how we share household tasks. All that disruption has its own seriousness. Yet the weight on me from all this is nothing like what Margie’s chronic pain and painful treatments bring her. I have failed to adequately care for myself as a caregiver. One practical result has been a lack of motivation in writing. Which is why I haven’t posted regularly. Understandable perhaps, but still not good.
Another source of disappointment for me is the political captivity demonstrated by my sisters and brothers in Christ. The evangelical support for Trump, and his divisiveness is disappointing in the extreme.
Peter Wehner, an evangelical Christian and long-time Republican, wrote an opinion piece in The Atlantic just prior to the 2024 election (October 2024). The title was “This Election Is Different.” It is written by someone who has long given his life to public service and whose love for America stretches back to childhood. “No election prior to the Trump era, regardless of the outcome,” he says, “ever caused me to question the fundamental decency of America.”
Donald Trump is a squalid figure, and the squalor is not subtle. His vileness, his lawlessness, and his malevolence are undisguised. At this point, it is reasonable to conclude that those qualities are a central part of Trump’s appeal to many.
The overwhelming support for Trump by the evangelical community is proof that the evangelical church has lost its way, supplanting the gospel with political ideology, replacing virtue with power. In our world, politics has become viewed as the primary way to change the world. This is an idolatrous presupposition—only Christ, and his kingdom, is transformative of a broken, sinful world.
Trump is unsuited to hold the office of President. Recognizing this doesn’t require one to have voted for Kamala Harris, but a Christian conscience should revolt at the idea of supporting such a man.
David French, another evangelical Christian, reflects on the election in The New York Times (December 15, 2024).
And so here we are, with the nation about to be led by a man found liable for sexual abuse, with key members of his chosen senior team beset by their own gross scandals, voted into office on the strength of overwhelming white evangelical support. (According to 2024 exit polls, he won white evangelicals by 65 points and lost everyone else by 18 points.) And all too many Christians still celebrate his victory—and their indispensable support—as a triumph of good over evil.
When I was younger and more naïve, I wondered why so many historical injustices persisted for so long in the United States. Now I have my answer.
And I have been disappointed in myself. I have not taken care of myself well as a caregiver. I knew I should but let discipline slip. Which is why I haven’t written more over so many months. I’ve become sloppy in the spiritual disciplines of Scripture reading and prayer. The possibility of self-medicating has seemed easier. I thought myself more mature than this. But there it is.
Another delight is being Anglican with the Book of Common Prayer. When spontaneous prayer dries up, using a rich Collect as a basis for my prayers is a lovely and deep way to speak to my God and Lord.
O God, the strength of the weak and the comfort of sufferers: Mercifully accept our prayers, and grant to your servant Margie the help of your power, that her sickness might be turned into health, her pain into relief, and our sorrow into joy; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
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